Dr Holmes
by Santai
Summary: Watson is seriously injured after a short fight. What happens when it's Holmes' turn to look after his friend? What happens when he has be mother hen? Bromance, one-shot.


**I know this is a little similar to my other fic, but I was playing with the idea of role-reversals in their relationship. Hope you like. It's set before the events of the film so no Mary to speak of XD. I don't own Sherlock Holmes in any way, shape or form. Reviews always appreciated!! Thankies.**

Watson ducked yet another misjudged hook at his head and narrowly avoided a second. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep up the dodging; he had already been doing it for at least fifteen minutes.

It had been a good night. After a short dinner with Holmes, his friend had promptly fallen unconscious on the floor after testing one of his new anaesthetics. Watson soon found himself at a bar, with a pleasant drink. That was when he was dragged into a back room lit only by candles and faced with a long forgotten gambling debt in the form of five thugs. It had gone downhill from there.

A shot at his head caught him off guard, followed by a punch to the stomach winding him. Coughing, he bent double, his arms hugging his waist. The biggest of the five grinned maliciously down at him.

"You should have paid up, doctor boy," he raised his fist again.

Watson closed his eyes and waited.

Before the blow landed, there was a thump. Risking a look, Watson saw the thug's arm fall limply to his side. A second later, he toppled forwards like a cut tree. Where he had been, Holmes stood with his batons tucked under his arms and his eyebrows raised.

"And you say I'm infuriating," he said, then whirled and caught his second victim in the cheekbone.

Watson smiled as he moved to one side and plucked his cane from where it had been discarded. The familiar thrill of fighting alongside the eccentric detective ignited in his stomach. Granted, they normally fought criminals that Holmes had tracked down in a way Watson hadn't even thought possible. It was almost shameful that this time he was using his fighting skills to fight for unpaid gambling debts. He shot his friend a grateful look and was rewarded with a small smile before Holmes went back to beating two of the remaining four men.

Holmes kept the smile on his face as he turned away. It was a rare smile. A smile that was reserved for when he was genuinely proud of himself. This was the first time it was Watson who had run stupidly into danger. This was the first time Holmes had been watching out for his friend. This was the first time he was the one saving the life. The smile grew as another man fell to the floor unconscious.

There was a gunshot.

Time seemed to slow as it resounded round the room. Holmes' face fell as he turned to see Watson falling backwards. He was helpless. For the first time in his discernable memory, he could do nothing. The gunman's lips were twitching as he began to turn the revolver on Holmes. Before he could swing his gun, Holmes had clapped both clubs on either side of his face. There was a satisfied crack and the final man fell to the floor. Without stopping for breath, Holmes discarded his batons and dropped almost drunkenly to his knees beside his friend.

Watson was lying on his back, his chest heaving up and down as he drew in shallow, ragged breaths. A sucking noise seemed to follow with every inhalation. His eyes were closed. Holmes gulped as surveyed him. Deep red seeped from the right side of his chest, staining the crisp white shirt he was wearing. Fear weighed heavily in his chest as Holmes pulled at the buttons down Watson's front, trying to get to the gunshot beneath. Peeling back the cotton revealed the entry wound just to the right of his sternum. Frothy blood dribbled from it as Watson's ribs rose and fell. He didn't have to be a doctor to know that it was far worse than it seemed.

Taking Watson's head in his hands, he forced his friend to face him, "Watson, what to do?"

Watson lifted his eyelids, "Holmes," he murmured quietly, "I need you to..."

Holmes felt panic rise in his throat as Watson grunted in sudden pain. He slipped a hand around one of Watson's and gripped it, "Tell me what to do."

Watson was silent for a moment, breathing painfully, his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth around his fingers.

Holmes frowned, agitated, "Dammit Watson! Tell me!"

Watson smirked weakly before continuing, the instructions broken by laboured breaths, "Cover it with...an airtight seal."

Holmes nodded and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, folded it into a square and pressed it as gently as he could onto the bullet wound. Watson winced then coughed violently. Linen wasn't nearly airtight, but at least if he managed to seal the edges it would work until he could get something better. _Seal the edges..._the thought smacked him hard, _How the hell do I seal the edges?_

Holmes had barely known the feeling of being dumbfounded, but now, as terror threatened to take his mind, every logical thought seemed to disappear, "How? How do I make it airtight, Watson?" he said quickly.

Watson opened his eyes again, "You're the detective," his voice was barely more than a pained whisper.

Holmes swallowed and began searching the room with his eyes, shaking the unhelpful thoughts from his head. Watson would die if he didn't get himself together. Suddenly, he scrambled to his feet, heading for one of the five pronged candlesticks that stood not far off. He pulled two of the candles from their holders, being careful not to blow them out in the process. Watching the flames intently, he knelt down next to Watson, blocking out the pained breathing of his friend as much as possible. He hesitated for a moment, not wanting to cause the doctor anymore pain, but knowing he had to. Steeling himself, he leant forward and held one candle slightly below the other, just above the edges of the bloodied cloth. Liquid wax fell drop by drop, splashing over Watson's chest.

Holmes screwed his eyes shut for a moment at the sound of Watson's moans of pain, then continued sealing the wound as best he could.

"Holmes," Watson muttered, teeth gritted against the pain.

His head turned, immediately withdrawing the candles and hoping he would get instructions that meant he didn't have to burn the doctor anymore.

"Just seal...three sides."

Holmes nodded and reluctantly carried on with what he was doing, clenching his jaw at the choking and shallow breaths of the man he was trying to save. The man he had to save.

Watson watched Holmes out of half closed eyes, only barely feeling the pain of the wax burning his skin or even the bullet lodged somewhere in his chest cavity. All he was focused on was his breathing. He knew what the bullet had done. It had ripped a hole in his lung. The oxygen he needed was rushing in through his mouth then right back out of the bullet wound. Oxygen deprivation had started to set in and his mind drifted away into memories. It seemed strange how, in one day, their relationship had been completely reversed. Today it was Holmes' turn to look after Watson. He tried to chuckle at the thought but he dissolved into coughing, forcing blood into his mouth.

Holmes focused on the melting candles, dropping wax across the boundary between cloth and flesh. As he finished the first side, he tried to work out how this was helping. Directing his mind to dissecting what he was doing would keep it off who he was doing it to. He trawled through the information in his head to try and work out what was happening in the doctor's chest. Then he realised what the handkerchief was for. It created a one-way valve. When Watson's chest expanded the seal tightened, stopping air flowing out. But the open edge allowed excess air to escape as the lungs deflated. The revelation would have been good news, had it not come hand in hand with the fact Holmes could do nothing more. A bloodied cloth would have to do. He finished the sealing and dropped the candles behind him, letting the flames die as they landed.

Panic that had been pushed to the back his mind, began to surface again as he looked up at Watson's pale face.

"What now? What do I do?" he asked, quickly.

Watson rolled his head from side to side, "Nothing...That's all that can be done..." he regarded Holmes through glassy eyes, "Thank you...for everything..."

His eyelids drifted shut.

Holmes frowned, not believing, "Watson?" he tapped his cheek lightly, "No! Watson, don't you dare!"

Holmes glanced as Watson's chest. It was still rising and falling weakly. He was still alive, for now. His head was a jumble of thoughts as he ran a trembling hand through his hair. If he tried to move Watson, the wax would split and he would be back where he started. The hospital was too far to carry him anyway. _If I'm taking him anywhere, it's Baker Street_, he thought stubbornly. A breath catching in Watson's throat derailed his train of thought. _Damndamndamndamndamn._

With a reluctance, he let go of Watson's hand, "I'm coming back, John," he whispered as he rose and turned to the door.

*

Consciousness wasn't something that Watson had expected to experience again. A sucking chest wound happened all too often during the war. It rarely ended well. He tested his breathing. It hurt. Of course it did, it would for at least two months. But at least he could breathe. A deep, exceptionally painful throbbing somewhere in his chest told him the bullet had been removed. He frowned, hoping to God that Holmes hadn't gotten ahead of himself and tried to remove it with his hands. There was no telling what concoctions the man would have on his fingers. The presence of pillows behind his head gave him some hope that the detective had managed to keep his head long enough to get professional help.

"Mr. Holmes," an unfamiliar voice of a woman spoke somewhere in the room, "You really should let someone take a look at you. Dr. Watson is still unconscious; you don't have to be here."

There was no reply, just a pause before the woman sighed and footsteps walked away. They must be in a hospital.

Watson smirked through the pain, "You are so stubborn," he murmured as he opened his eyes.

Holmes looked up from where he had been sprawled in a chair beside the hospital bed, with his face in his hand. His red rimmed eyes barely seemed to register what he was looking at until he blinked. A grin spread across his face.

Watson returned the smile best he could, "How long have I been unconscious?"

Holmes dragged the chair closer as he answered, "Approximately 23 hours," _36 minutes and 49 seconds_, he continued in his head, "You would have been awake sooner but the surgeon insisted on giving you an aesthetic so that you wouldn't wake while they removed the bullet."

Watson regarded him, noting his bloodshot eyes, "You've been here that long, eh?"

Holmes blinked again, then sat back in his chair shaking his head quickly, "Of course not, old boy. I've been very busy; I arrived just an hour ago."

Watson chuckled, immediately regretting it as his lungs screamed, "Did you spend all that time with that much blood on your hands? And wearing the same clothes?"

Holmes rubbed his fingers against each other then sniffed, "Yes, well, like I said, I have been...very busy," he said quietly.

Watson smiled, knowing full well he hadn't moved.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment before Watson spoke again, "How did you find me? When I left you were passed out on the floor after you made a mistake."

Holmes pursed his lips, "It was not a mistake in the slightest," he huffed, "And I wasn't unconscious more than a minute, if I remember rightly," he muttered, "When I woke up and realised you had gone, I thought it best to try and find you."

"Why?"

"Those five men had been following you for some time. Did you not notice?"

Watson furrowed his eyebrows, "I can't say I did."

"Oh, well then, it's a good thing I did. Yet another gambling issue, I assume."

Watson looked away.

Holmes already knew what the issue was, "Whatever the problem was, it is the past now," he said waving a hand.

"Thank you, though, for coming when you did."

Holmes didn't reply for a moment, then rubbed the back of his head and leant forward, his elbows on his thighs, "I'm sorry, Watson."

He frowned warily, "What have you done?"

The detective chuckled quietly, "I'm not apologising for something I've done. Well, I am. But not for something I have done recently anyway," he paused for a moment and looked down at the floor, "I never quite understood why you scolded me so every time I did something reckless," he mused.

Watson watched him, silent.

"But, now I think I know why you did," he continued, gazing vacantly, "It's a terrible feeling to watch your friend dying, isn't it?"

Watson nodded.

"So...I'm sorry."

"There is one good thing to come of it though," he started, making sure to make his voice as cheerful as possible. Holmes looked up from his stare. "I now know I have a friend so absolutely devoted that I could run into the jaws of hell itself and know that he would come after me."

Holmes felt his lips twitch.

"And, now I see where you get the confidence to do it so often," he continued then smirked, "_Mother hen._"

Two emotions warred in Holmes' head. One was annoyance. He was most certainly not a _mother hen_. The second emotion was on he couldn't quite put his finger on. Being a man who disliked confusion, he decided to bat it away, lean back in his chair and fix Watson with an irritated look.

"I can't say the idea of being a mother hen is one that really appeals to me, I'm afraid Watson," he said airily.

"Well it seems to me, that you appear to have done a fairly good job," Watson replied, "I am still alive."

Holmes closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the top of the chair, "I can do a good job of most things, but that doesn't necessarily mean I wish to do them often."

Watson noted Holmes fatigue, "You do a good job of being a stubborn idiot and you seem to insist on doing that permanently."

"How so?" he asked, tiredly.

"Go home, Holmes," he replied, simply.

There was silence.

"Get some sleep. If it's me you're worried about, then you shouldn't be. I'm fine."

Holmes said nothing. Watson frowned then shook his head as he realised the detective was already sleeping.

"Holmes!" Watson shouted then grunted in pain.

The detective sat upright with a surprised snort then settled back into his chair, "You know," he remarked, yawning, "You shouldn't shout in your condition."

"And you shouldn't stay awake for more than thirty six hours straight."

"Actually, Watson, I think you'll find I was quite pleasantly nodding off just then, but you felt it necessary to wake me."

"Our dog will need looking after," Watson commented, trying to find something that would make Holmes go home and get some proper rest.

"You underestimate my organisation, old boy. Gladstone is currently happily lying by the fire, blissfully unaware of the past day's events. The same concoction I tested earlier to be exact."

Watson rolled his eyes but didn't comment on the condition of the dog, "You have clients which are looking for your skills."

"I can pick and choose my clients as I wish."

The doctor sighed, "Then, how long do you plan to sit there like an obstinate mule? It will be at least a week before I can leave."

Holmes folded his arms across his chest, "Then I shall have to fetch my pipe."

*

It was, in fact, more than a week before Watson was allowed to walk from the hospital. It would have been longer, had the doctors not finally gotten fed up with Holmes condescending remarks every time they tried to assess Watson. He smiled as he stepped down from the cab. Holmes handed him his cane then shoved his hands in his pockets and ascended the stairs. He hadn't spoken all day. The night before, Watson had managed to convince him to go home for the third time under the pretence that he wanted the rooms at least vaguely tidy when he returned. When he had returned to collect Watson this morning, he seemed to be in one of his depressive moods. Frowning at his back, Watson followed, leaning more heavily on his cane than usual.

It wasn't until he had sat heavily down in one of the chairs in their room that Holmes spoke.

He stood with his back to Watson, watching the street through the window, "I was putting away a number of your medical journals last night, and I got to thinking."

"Dangerous," Watson commented, smirking under his moustache.

Holmes turned, his expression not sharing Watson's mirth, "Did you mean what you said about running into the jaws of hell?"

"Of course I did."

Holmes winced and looked away again, "I thought as much," he mused.

Watson stood from his chair and joined him in front of the window, "Why do you ask?"

He sighed, "I can't say that I quite agree with your confidence."

"What do you mean? Are you saying that you wouldn't run after me?"

Holmes turned quickly, "No, no, that's not what I'm saying at all," he rubbed the back of his head, "There is a long list of things I would be more than willing to do. But there is also a list of things of I simply cannot do, Watson."

Watson laughed, "Such a list cannot be long."

"I am not a doctor!" he almost shouted, then paused and went to sit heavily in one of the chairs, "Short as the list may be, if one of the entries became the reason for your…" he glanced vacantly at the floor, "Well, I don't think I could live with myself."

Watson sighed, and placed a hand on his friends shoulder, "For all your genius, you are a terrible judge of character. I don't plan to let myself get into this state often."

"One doesn't always plan to put oneself into such situations," he replied, distantly.

Watson lowered himself into the chair opposite, "Unlike you, my friend, I know what to avoid and when. Besides, I have far more reason than you to keep myself out of hospital."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, questioningly.

"If were incapacitated then who on earth would take you in hand," he gestured around the room, "Look at this place. I was absent for a week."

Holmes glanced around the room, his eyebrows furrowed, "I will have you know, doctor, that our rooms are the tidiest they have been in months. I am perfectly capable of caring for myself."

"I highly doubt that."

The detective sat back in his chair, frowning, "Actually, I survived for a good number of years before we met."

"Yes, and it never ceases to amaze me how you did so."

Pointedly ignoring Watson's comment, Holmes pulled his pipe from his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco.

Happy that he had brought Holmes out of the depression that threatened to sweep over him, the doctor put his feet up on a nearby stool, "Seeing as you insisted on us leaving the hospital early, my surgeon provided a list of instructions," he pushed a hand in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

"Instructions for what?" Holmes asked, dark smoke curling from his lips.

He tossed the paper onto Holmes' lap and waited until he had half unfolded it before speaking, "Aftercare. You are to be my live in doctor for the next week."

Tilting his head, he read through the piece of paper, "Dr. Holmes," he muttered to himself, "I must say that has a certain, pleasant ring to it, don't you think? Perhaps I may use this as a starting point to shorten the list which I was speaking of," a mischievous grin twitched at his lips.

"Perhaps…" Watson replied, wondering whether it had been such a good idea to even mention the instructions.

After another moment of reading, Holmes clamped his pipe between his teeth and jumped from his chair.

"What are you doing?"

Glasses clicked together as Holmes began searching his shelves, occasionally glancing back at the paper which he had spread on his desk, "I happen to know the purpose of the compounds listed here, you see. And I have personally created other mixtures which reach the same ends but in a much more efficient way," he excitedly started pulled down liquid filled phials and peered at them intently.

Clearing his throat, Watson watched him, worried, "I'm not entirely sure that is the best course of action."

A chuckle escaped from behind Holmes' pipe, "Now, now Watson, you really must trust me a little more. I would think that the continued existence of our wonderfully compliant dog is evidence enough of my chemical prowess."

With a quiet gulp, Watson resigned himself to the fact that he would become Holmes' new Gladstone. As he watched him go about pouring one liquid into another, then giving a satisfied grunt at the resulting sparks, Watson added yet another reason never to let himself get hurt ever again. It was capitalised. Written in red ink.


End file.
